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“Was there anything you wanted?” she asked.

When my gaze strayed to the dumplings, she winked. “I’ll make sure you get an especially large serving this morning.”

“Thank you.” I bowed to her, but she pulled me up.

“No need for that. You’re Prince Liwei’s companion.” She rubbed her chin in contemplation. “Maybe I should bow to you.”

“Please don’t,” I said with feeling, before thanking her once more and leaving.

In Prince Liwei’s room, I helped him to dress, holding out a sky-blue brocade robe as he slipped into it. Around his waist I knotted a black sash, to which he fastened an ornament of yellow jade and silk.

His dark hair flowed loosely down his back as he sat before a mirror, holding out a silver comb. “Would you help me?”

I hesitated, before reaching out to take it. I had only ever done my own hair, in the simple style which required no skill whatsoever. In the Golden Lotus Mansion, it was Jiayi who had the intimate task of dressing Lady Meiling. I ran the comb through Prince Liwei’s strands with rhythmic strokes, my mind working furiously as I tried to recall the men’s styles from the Golden Lotus Mansion. His hair was heavier than mine, silken and lustrous, spilling down his back like polished ebony. Finding a knot, I dug the comb deeper, accidentally ripping out a few strands.

He inhaled sharply, turning to me with a pained expression. “Xingyin, have I offended you in some way?”

The comb fell from my hand with a clatter. Perhaps I had attacked his hair with more vigor than intended. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

With deft fingers, he pulled his hair into a smooth topknot, which he tucked into a silver headpiece and secured with a carved jade pin. Catching my eye in the mirror, he arched an eyebrow. “Are you? Sorry enough to help me with my hair every morning until you get it right?”

Was that a command? Recalling the rules of etiquette, I knelt in acknowledgment, but he reached out, placing his hands beneath my elbows to lift me up.

“Xingyin, we’ll be together every day. When it’s just the two of us, there’s no need for such formality. You don’t need to kneel or bow every time I say something, or you’ll spend most of the day with your head on the ground. And just call me Liwei. When we met, I felt there were no walls between us. That you were someone I could speak freely with. I’d like us to be friends, if you want that, too?” he asked gently.

My eyes collided into his. How warm his smile, like a ray of sunshine had slid into the solitude of my soul. He was not at all what I expected of a prince, but so much more. I wondered what the chief attendant would make of this. Not that it mattered.

“Yes, I would,” I replied.

After our morning meal, we left to our first lesson. I followed Liwei through the seemingly endless corridors, into a large garden. Graceful willows ringed a lake, a red wooden bridge arching over the water to a small island. A single pavilion was built upon it with an upturned roof of glazed green tiles, blending seamlessly into the verdant surroundings. I inhaled deeply the fresh air, tempted to linger, but Liwei strode ahead through a circular gateway of white stone adorned with a lacquered plaque which read:

崇明堂

Chamber of Reflection

An apt name for a place of learning, one I hoped to live up to. As we sat down at a long table and took out our books, I looked around the room. The gray marble floor, plain wooden beams, and sparse furnishings were a stark contrast to the rest of the opulent palace. Shelves were crammed with scrolls, and books were piled onto the tables which had been pushed against the walls. The tall, latticed windows opened out to the garden, the cool air drifting into the chamber.

An elderly immortal entered. Liwei whispered to me that he was the Keeper of Mortal Fates who would teach us the history of the realms. His white beard hung past his waist and his wrinkled hand grasped a jade staff.

I had seen those creases on Ping’er’s face before, as she tucked me into bed those nights my mother lingered too long on the balcony. My finger had brushed the lines at the corners of her eyes. “Ping’er, what are these?”

“A mark of the years,” she had replied.

“Are you older than Mother?” I was surprised, as my mother seemed so grave and solemn.

“By a hundred years at least. Up until adulthood, our lives follow a similar pattern to those of the mortals. After that, our ages cease to matter. An immortal who is a thousand years old may appear the same as one who is thirty. The strength of our lifeforce determines our youth.”

I raised myself up on an elbow, alight with curiosity. “Lifeforce?”

“The core of our powers, which determines how much energy we possess to be channeled into magic. I have these lines because I’m not as strong,” she said.

“Will Mother have these lines? Me?” I had asked.

“Only time will tell.” Before I could ask more, Ping’er had hurried from the room, closing the door firmly after her.

The memory tugged at my heart. Until the empress’s arrival, this was the first and last time Ping’er had spoken to me of magic. Now I knew the secrets she had kept that night, those of my sealed powers. This discovery might have upset me more had I learned it before the empress’s visit. But I found it no longer mattered—not now, after the storm had broken and swept me away. Though I could not help wishing that I had known of its existence, that I might have done something to prevent it.

The Keeper of Mortal Fates picked up a book, flicking through its pages. “How old is he?” I blurted to Liwei as I stared at his snow-white hair.